Life need not be nasty, brutish, or short. There is a better way.
Arnon D’Bvaym
“BIT?” CORTEX SNIFFLED. His face was pressed into 64Bit’s back. “Bit? What was that sound?”
“He’s alive.” 64Bit whispered. The master groaned again and twitched weakly.
“Alive?” Cortex said. He peeked around 64Bit’s side. Slowly, 64Bit looked down and saw Cortex’s eyes grow wider than dinner plates. “Oh,” Cortex muttered. To his credit, the boy only looked shocked, not sick, as he stared at the master. His eyes traced the long burn lines running across the master’s body.
The master coughed wetly.
“We’re just standing here, staring. But we should do something. I don’t feel very present, do you?” 64Bit asked.
“I feel . . . sick,” Cortex responded.
64Bit pressed his lips together and pinched himself, hard, until he felt his head begin to clear. He rolled the master onto his back, careful to keep his head sideways in case he vomited. 64Bit paused when he noticed blood on the master’s lips. His front looked much like his back—black, burnt lines where the wires of his frame had run under skin and through muscle. “Get burn ointment,” 64Bit said, “a clean towel, and a bucket of clean water.”
“How . . . much?” Cortex said.
“As much as you can carry.” 64Bit walked past Cortex and stopped at the door of the workroom. He looked back and saw Cortex staring at the master, his hands opening and closing at his side. 64Bit walked back and shook Cortex, “Come on! Go to the medical room.”
Cortex blinked, then a light turned on in his eyes. He shook free from 64Bit’s grip and ran out of the room. 64Bit followed, then ran past as Cortex stopped in front of the door to the medical room. Under other circumstances, he would have tried to help the master himself, but he didn’t trust himself or Cortex to make wise medical decisions in their current mental states. Fortunately, the master had a personal robotic medkit stored in his room. It was built by the master—it would at least be able to stabilize his condition until 64Bit was mentally recovered.
At the end of the hallway, 64Bit slapped the doorframe to open the door to the master’s room, stepped forward, and— Wham!
When 64Bit’s vision cleared he was staring at the ceiling again. He raised his hand and rubbed his forehead, wincing as he brushed a large lump just above his glass port. “The door—panel not working . . . power outage . . . must be fried. By Creation, I hope not much else has been destroyed,” 64Bit muttered, but he didn’t actually believe that the damage from the power outage would be minor. He stood and pressed his hands against the door, sliding it open inch by inch as he prepared a mental list of everything he would need to inspect for damage.
“Every sliding door, the computer room, the robotics room, the wall suppressors . . .”
64Bit slid between the door frame and the partially opened door, then pushed until it was completely open.
“Settlement water pumps, rozie alarm systems, the particle battery generator in the shack—oh God!” 64Bit stopped and clutched his chest. Fort was powered by several coffin-sized particle batteries—if the excess power from 64Bit’s small explosion had destabilized those batteries, the damage could be on a nuclear level. He forced himself to breath slowly while he whispered, “We’d already be dead if those batteries exploded. We’d already be dead if those batteries exploded. We’d already— don’t need to dwell on that.” It was a cold comfort. 64Bit moved checking on the generator particle batteries higher on his mental list. He then turned his attention to the master’s room.
The master’s room was almost as bare as 64Bit’s own. The master’s own bed was a thin pad with a single blanket and no pillow. Notepapers and notebooks were scattered around in neat piles on the floor, and a small table next to the master’s dresser— also composed of crates—held several tomes of scripture. 64Bit was surprised to see the bare ceiling; usually, the master’s only decoration was a hologram of the sky that normally covered his ceiling. A blackened projector nub revealed to 64Bit that it, too, had been destroyed in the power surge.
64Bit looked to the right and saw the medkit in the room’s corner. It was a thick, black metal box that came up to 64Bit’s knee. 64Bit waved at it and commanded “Medkit, come.”
The medkit remained in place.
64Bit pressed his lips together, time slipping by like water in a colander. He rushed to the machine, ran his hand over its surface, and found a little black cap that blended in with the rest of the machine; he pulled it off, revealing a small port, which he reorganized his finger jack to match before inserting his finger into the machine.
Medkit, on, 64Bit thought.
access denied flashed across 64Bit’s vision.
64Bit groaned. “A first-aid robot with a password? This is an emergency!”
access denied flashed again.
An image of the master, lying on the ground with blood dribbling out of his mouth, flashed through 64Bit’s mind. 64Bit considered trying to hack the machine, but he didn’t want to risk the time. He racked his brain for possible passcodes and inserted several. None worked.
64Bit leaned his head against the machine and bit his lip. The passcode could be anything. Even something as simple as the master’s favorite number . . .
3141592653589793238462643383279, 64Bit thought at the medkit, entering as many digits as the machine would allow.
approved. full assistance granted. A hole opened in its top to reveal a small projector. As 64Bit stared, a dull reflection of his pixelated eyes on his eye screens staring back at him in the projector lens, a fuzzy hologram of a handsome older woman appeared from the projector. The woman smiled and spoke in a monotone voice that sounded computer-generated: “Thank you for activating your personal care assistant. Please disengage your manual connection to the automated medical kit.”
64Bit ejected his finger and stood. “Follow me to the patient,” he said. The medkit rose slightly as wheels popped out of the bottom; it rolled along behind 64Bit as he ran toward the workroom.
Upon entering, 64Bit grabbed a broom to clear a path to the master. The medkit waited just far enough away not to get under 64Bit’s sweeping until it had a clear runway through the workroom’s floor, then scooted adjacent to the master’s prone figure. “I have records for this patient,” it said. “His name is Gizmo, and he is ninety-seven years old. He was in exceptional physical health for his age despite his appearances. What happened to him?”
64Bit blinked. Gizmo. It was his master’s name, a name he hadn’t spoken aloud in a while. Out of respect, he only ever used the master’s title. That dissonance, combined with the medkit’s monotone voice and rhythmic speaking patterns, almost made the name merely sounds with no representative meaning behind them.
“He absorbed an extreme amount of energy—from a particle battery—into himself and expelled it. Based on the pattern of burning, I think his frame is crippled, if not outright destroyed. I’m unaware of the extent of the damage to his flesh, but I thought he was dead after . . . it happened.”
There was a pause, then the medkit responded, “I have reviewed the patient’s record. His frame was not augmented to handle containing or redirecting large amounts of energy. Have you already provided him with any medical assistance?”
“No. I did send the other acolyte to get burn ointment and clean water and towels, and I rolled him onto his back. That is all.”
The holographic head floating above the medkit nodded. “Very well. As the patient cannot remotely connect with me, please manually insert the patient’s finger so that I may perform a scan.”
As the medkit spoke, Cortex walked into the room, a bucket in one hand and a pile of towels and glass jars in the other arm. Unbalanced, he leaned to the side and dropped several jars before correcting himself. 64Bit winced, but nothing broke.
“Cortex, set those down for a moment. We’re going to have the medkit do its work first.”
Cortex did so without saying anything, his eyes on the floor, which 64Bit noted as a sign of extreme stress. He would need to address that, eventually, but had to maintain his focus elsewhere. Cortex would live, but the master might not.
“Big problems are made of small parts—one part at a time,” 64Bit muttered to himself. He breathed deeply and lifted the master’s hand. The man groaned at 64Bit’s touch; 64Bit stared at him, waiting for him to open his eyes and ask why 64Bit and Cortex weren’t studying or working on their various chores, but the man remained still, breathing shallowly. A hollow sensation settled in 64Bit’s chest as he inserted the master’s finger jack into the medkit.
“Hmm,” the medkit said, its holographic face impassive. “It appears that Gizmo’s frame has been burned beyond any use. The patient will need a new frame before most of his body augmentations can be functional.”
64Bit stopped for a moment, then sat and leaned against a table as he processed what the medkit had said. A technomancer’s frame largely consisted of wires and sensors that ran throughout his entire body, including his brain. If the medkit’s diagnosis was that all of the master’s frame had burned, including the wires in his brain, he likely would be severely brain damaged, if not brain-dead.
“We don’t know enough to draw definite conclusions,” 64Bit muttered to himself. “There are other possible answers—theorize. The damage may not have reached his neck or brain. The frame nearest to his hand jack could be most severely damaged, preventing the medkit from performing a full analysis which might reveal less extensive damage. The burn marks on his skin could suggest that only near-surface wires were burned, which would not include his brain.” 64Bit placed a hand on his heart and felt as if he were pulling back from the situation again. “Oh please, please, not his brain. Anything but his brain. I’m not ready to be this settlement’s guardian technomancer. I can’t—I can’t even command a Therexe Cube, much less make a particle battery, or do anything else needed. Please!”
The master groaned again.
Cortex chewed on a knuckle and stared at the master’s face.
“There is not much that can be done for the patient’s frame at this moment,” the medkit said. “I sense weak wireless signals coming from him—although the message is garbled—this suggests that the frame within his brain is functional to some degree, which should provide some relief to you, given that your pulse indicates a distressed state. Without an external machine that would allow us to scan him, we will not be able to determine the damage done to his brain. But he is not dead.”
64Bit shifted, forcing himself to focus on the moment, to categorize the sensations he felt. Splinter from the floor, a burning smell in the air, sweat on my back, elevated heart rate. When he felt more present, he asked, “The master will be fine?”
“I did not intentionally include subtext. There is the potential that he will pull through with minimal damage. Or he may never awake from a coma. I cannot make a definitive conclusion without more data.”
64Bit’s heart sank. If complete, or nearly complete, recovery was likely, the medkit would say so.
The medkit’s body opened and several long, thin robotic arms extended outward. “I will attempt to assist you with psychological recovery when the patient has received sufficient care. For now, I must physically inspect the patient to determine what, if any, further action is necessary to ensure his survival and recovery. Please remain available should I need assistance. I first recommend cleaning these burn wounds and applying burn ointment. Do you require guidance?”
“We’ve done this sort of thing before,” 64Bit told the medkit, then called to Cortex. Cortex approached a moment later with an armful of jars. He set those down, then fetched the clean towels and bucket of water.
The two somberly got to work, coordinating with gestures rather than words. They began with the master’s legs, softly washing and applying burn ointment, while the medkit poked and prodded at the master’s upper half. While working, 64Bit kept forcing himself to remain in the moment; he refused to let himself mentally float away. The physical labor helped a great deal. He almost didn’t notice when Cortex began whispering to him.
“I’m scared, Bit.”
64Bit looked up and noticed tears in Cortex’s eyes. 64Bit ran through several responses in his head, uming and ahing until he settled on, “It’s going to work out.”
“I don’t know what I did. I tried to help with the battery, but things got worse, and you tried to fix it, but that didn’t work, and now . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep seeing him, glowing, burning on the inside. I’ve failed my purpose—the Creator is going to undo my soul, isn’t He?”
64Bit stared at Cortex and worked his jaw, but found nothing to say. He could splint a broken bone, stitch wounds, and other physical things, but he couldn’t imagine what to do to help Cortex with his mental stress, not now. He was having a hard enough time himself doing what needed to be done, and pushing Cortex along sounded like too much to bear right now. Eventually, 64Bit managed to say, “We don’t have enough data to say anything for certain. Maybe what you did destabilized the battery—maybe it was me—maybe it was out of our control. We might never know. So . . . set it aside, figure it out later.”
Cortex sniffed and didn’t look comforted, but he wiped his eyes and got back to work, kneeling beside the master and gently rubbing ointment into his burns. 64Bit shook his head and tried to focus on caring for the master. Cortex was a resilient kid—he’d pull through.
The master groaned again and coughed. “Where . . . I . . .”
64Bit crawled to the master’s head as quickly as he could; Cortex followed on the other side of the master, awkwardly hovering behind the medkit.
“Master! I’m here,” 64Bit said.
The master breathed shallowly for a moment, eyes closed, then licked his lips. “Ah . . . you . . . kept your end of the deal, right?”
“What deal?” 64Bit asked. Where was the master’s mind right now? “Master, you’re injured. You’re lying on the floor of your home. We—we didn’t know if you would ever wake up again.”
The master nodded slowly. He opened his eyes, raised his head, and stared, completely unfocused, at 64Bit. “Good, good. I . . . Please, tell the boy that I’m sorry. All those years ago . . . He was just a boy . . . Tell 64Bit . . . I had no choice. But I . . . No. I would do it again. If it worked. But that knowledge won’t help me sleep.” The master leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. The medkit began beeping loudly.
“Stand back,” the medkit said, its monotone understating the urgency. “His heart has stopped.”
64Bit stood and backed up, staring at the master, the old man’s previous words running through his mind. Tell the boy that I’m sorry . . . I would do it again . . . What did the master have to be sorry about? What did he do? And what did it have to do with 64Bit? 64Bit hardly noticed as Cortex ran around the master, grabbed 64Bit by the waist, and hugged him tightly.
“Hold him still,” the medkit said as it produced a large syringe. 64Bit unsteadily dropped to his knees and held the master’s shoulders down. The hologram above the medkit looked at Cortex and said, “I will not be able to pierce his chest on my own. I need your help.”
Cortex shook his head and shrunk away from the medkit, holding 64Bit tighter.
“Stop—Cortex, let go!” 64Bit said. He grabbed the boy’s hands and placed them on the master’s shoulders, then looked Cortex in the eyes, feeling very present as he did so. “Hold,” 64Bit said. He then turned to the large syringe held by the medkit, took a deep breath, and grabbed it.
“Stab here, with pressure,” the medkit said, pointing to the master’s chest over his heart. 64Bit paused for a moment, drawing strength, then stabbed downward. The medkit waved him off and took over from there, depressing the syringe’s plunger. 64Bit watched as the chemical concoction was pushed into his master’s chest.
“I need you,” 64Bit whispered.
#
64BIT STUMBLED INTO the kitchen, barely able to keep his head up, his stomach aching with a bottomless emptiness. He suspected that he would have fallen asleep already had his hunger not been stronger than his exhaustion.
Then again, maybe not. 64Bit’s arms didn’t feel heavy with tiredness—they just felt heavy. It was as if a spiritual weight were pressing on his entire soul, reminding him of the responsibility that he bore for Fort, for Cortex, and as a technomancer, with the master unconscious.
“But he’s not dead—he’s not dead,” 64Bit whispered as he opened the refrigerator. He didn’t hear a hum as he opened the door, and the air inside barely felt cold—another item to add to his list of fried, hopefully repairable machinery. He grabbed the pot of leftover stew and began shoveling food into his mouth, standing before the open door. As his stomach filled, his mind worked backward through the last few hours, analyzing them, looking for anything to dwell on other than the cloud of hopelessness that rested on him.
64Bit had gone to the shed behind his home to check the state of the giant particle batteries that powered the settlement. The computer monitoring them showed no signs of damage and relayed that they were stable. That relieved the pressure 64Bit felt a little bit, but not much. He then inspected the rest of the home and found random lights and doors burned out, as well as some of the machines in the chemical lab and the robotics room. Fortunately, the surge protectors in the computer lab had protected most of the machines in there well enough, but 64Bit did have to move a smoking computer outside and dump water on it. The whole time he’d inspected, he wondered how similarly the rest of Fort had fared, if the wall defenses still stood.
Before that, 64Bit had gotten Cortex’s help to prepare a stretcher, place the master on it, and carry him to his room. Cortex had been unfocused the entire time, slow and requiring much direction from 64Bit. Afterward, 64Bit had ordered him to go and rest rather than giving him chores. He wasn’t sure what else to do—Cortex needed help, but 64Bit didn’t know how to give it and was fighting to maintain control of himself. The master would have known what to do. 64Bit swallowed and shook his head, feeling guilt crack his focus.
At least the medkit was able to monitor the master, perform small tasks, and collect 64Bit and Cortex if necessary. That was one thing 64Bit didn’t have to think about. He closed the fridge door, still holding the stew pot, and walked to the kitchen table before sitting down and eating more stew.
“The master feels guilt—he’s guilty about something he did to me,” 64Bit said to himself. He shook his head. “But not so guilty he wouldn’t . . . do it again.” Try as he might, 64Bit had no clue how to unravel what the master had said, but each time he thought about it, his guts twisted. The way the master had phrased it made it sound as if he had done something intentional rather than accidental. But what?
“He told you he wanted to talk to you about your slow development,” 64Bit muttered. That thought made him pause. The two events weren’t related, but he couldn’t help but feel a connection between them. What connection that might be, he couldn’t be sure, but his muddled state of mind didn’t help him make sense of it.
After troubling himself for a few minutes, 64Bit set the thought aside for further review when his mind was fresh.
64Bit cast his mind further backward. In his mind’s eye he saw a great, dead, upside-down tree resting in the mountains, sending its branches through the earth to destroy Fort. He had felt a word whispered in his mind . . . Id . . . “More to research,” 64Bit said. He looked down at the stew pot, then pushed it away, no longer hungry. “A vision? I hope not. Or if a vision, one of distant events. If something were . . . if something were to happen to Fort while the master was . . . indisposed.” He couldn’t help but laugh ruefully. “Oh, Creator! They would only have me. And what a joke that would be. A technomancer in name only.”
A ringing sound filled the air. 64Bit jerked his head up and wiped his mouth—at some point he had nodded off. He looked around blearily and wondered what sort of alarm was blaring.
The ringing continued. 64Bit rubbed the side of his head, then sat up straight, suddenly awake. It was the doorbell— someone was at the front door.
Copyright © 2023 by David Ludlow
Boo Ludlow 